


The Sword that Lies Between Them

by kagrena (spacemagic)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: (little love for queens. but many comforts), Almalexia is a lesbian, F/F, Nerevar is mentioned but is not present, Political Alliances, Smut, So is Kagrenac (who is a woman), but also a meditation on the limits of political marriages and affairs between political rivals, first council
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemagic/pseuds/kagrena
Summary: The wedding of Indoril Almalexia and Nerevar Mora was a pompous affair that had lasted far too long, according to Chief Tonal Architect Kagrenac.Two weeks had passed since she had gifted Almalexia the blade named "Hopesfire". Two weeks of long, arduous festivities.It is only on the night before Nerevar's coronation that they find themselves together again.(Amongst other things, they play chess.)
Relationships: Indoril Almalexia/Kagrenac
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	The Sword that Lies Between Them

If they were opposing pieces on a chessboard, Almalexia would consider Kagrenac to have the same position as herself: the queen.

She has been the one who watched the field carefully as the men bluster and blather, who has kept an attentive eye on the political terrain. She holds herself impeccably, without a single twitch of the mask she wears and the role she plays, and yet she does not fear decisive action, she does not fear a strike. She is the one who could take devastating moves that would strike a chord of fear in the hearts of her opponents. She is surely the one who could, and who would, plot in secret to wipe the board. Perhaps she too was a pawn once.

A heavy dignity, it is to be a queen.

A heavy dignity, to carry their respective kingdoms on their shoulders alone. 

(Or at least, no other from what she can see, she cannot see another that catches Kagrenac's eye, no other elusive gold-lipped metal-tattooed woman with rubies braided into her beard to which she speaks, to whom her lips might touch, not from where she can see anchored on the other side of the board, across plazas of proud cities erupting in celebration and noise and a bright-eyed wildness at the beginning of a new alliance, that feels like an impossible distance to breach.)

She begins to wonder what it would be like to play chess with her, across this new stage.

She imagines that Kagrenac would hold her gaze, without flinching. She holds her gaze, steady, unmoving, as Almalexia moves to speak at the Council table, and it almost makes something catch in her throat. Her face is perfectly still, and there is something inscrutable, impossible to read behind her eyes as she watches her with certain attention.

It would not be an easy match. Not that Almalexia, who always hungered for a worthy opponent, would be put off by a challenge. She could imagine spending hours - easily - across a perfectly still board, at a deadlock, a standstill, her dark eyes boring into hers, her hands - her fingers moving as precisely across the board as they might along her jawline to draw her closer.

She would think the Dwemer also must play chess; they must play some games, she believes, for locking themselves in workshops stuffed with hot steam must get unbearable after too long, as much as they have acclimatised themselves to the strange and the unknown. She would think that the sets might look different - feel different - perhaps a strange twist of brass, half abstract, rather than the smooth marble she is used to running her fingers across. 

She imagines Kagrenac, as a queen, would be a rather finely cut piece; cool to the touch, but certainly not unpleasantly sharp.

Unfamiliar, perhaps. A little forbidden -- not that would phase her, exactly, for the Chimer knows that anything worth tasting, anything worth embracing, is always a little taboo. Still, not entirely unknown, for she must be a queen - Almalexia knows, despite all their differences - ebony and brass, emerald and deep violet, soprano and alto, sacred rites and profane rituals - she holds herself with a certain distance. And even at that distance, others quieten their voices to let hers carry, soft and oddly melodic, and it seems to echo in the strangest places. 

They are queens. They are not men, and cannot chase shadows as men do, cannot cross creaking floorboards across unwritten battlefields and share muffled laughter and gifts smelling of rich colognes as men do, bathing in each other’s scent, letting hands wander, fraternising, as men do, with no care for consequence, as men do, as they cross the ballroom floor --

There is too much on their shoulders.

They cannot forget their place.

But that does not stop the thought. Hands unfastening, pulling away all that satin and silk. Ringed fingers running along her back. Her lips, gold paint brushing her ear: 

_“Kill him for me.”_

It is something that would be easy to do. There is a sword between them now. 

_Hopesfire._ It is a blade that glistens like a distant star, alight with a flame that is a shifting collection of blues, opalescent, as if something caught through a lens, or a looking-glass, something so strange -- so enchanting -- that she could not imagine it as anything but magic - but she knows that it is not. She is not the idiot that others have liked to believe. She has read enough trying handbooks on Dwemeris courtly rituals and manners to know that they do not pay much heed to magic. She also knows that a handmade gift of a tool is not a trinket freely given. 

There is an emotional weight behind it. (A weight, too, that rests on her shoulders)

Sometimes, such gifts are even shared between lovers. (The thought of that, is not a weight, but a shiver down her spine).

 _Hopesfire._ Such a triumphant name. Such sweetness, generosity, and abundance of feeling - certainly not a name she could imagine crafted by the tongue of a severe Tonal Architect who kept her back straight while others would fall to their knees in deference. 

The logical explanation, of course, is that in order to match Dumac’s rather extravagant piece of craftsmanship, Kagrenac had to forge something of equal measure. Gifts not from King to King, but from Kingdom to Kingdom. To appease the Indorils, who would have bared teeth and drawn blood at any slight on her behalf. It was a calculated political move to counterbalance the impact of Nerevar’s past indulgences with foreign kings.

But does everything, does _everything,_ really, have to be about Nerevar?

He isn’t even here. He is spending the night before his coronation, off galavanting, with all his past entourage - he insisted that everyone, even those she would hate torn from her side, accompany him, without thinking - and he is most likely pouring honey in another’s ear, dancing from dusk until dawn --

She is alone on the eve before her husband’s coronation. A quiet, heavy dignity, it was. The space in between as fingers fumble around the turning of a page.

_And she does not want to be alone --_

It is in that space where queens have room to speak, on a stone balcony choked with ivy, that she catches her eye.

  
  


\----

  
  


“Almalexia.”

It had started as a game of glances, between them. A cursory glance, at first, over the edge of a lengthy document still thick in dwarven legalese, to the other woman across the negotiating table, who appeared bored. Almalexia would look away graciously, before taking a lengthier glance, then, to her, the other woman, composed of angular and yet striking features, sharp cheekbones, a distinguished nose, a fierce brow that was crinkling slightly - was it in deep concentration? Or perhaps disgust, or even exasperation at the detailing of a torturous forty-page legal treaty. Almalexia could not yet quite tell the difference, and yet somehow found herself drawn into longer and longer glances with the turning of each page, the gold details on the edge of her sleeve, to a long gold earring, dangling in the air, to the twist of a gold ring that enveloped a long, elegant finger that circled the rim of an empty wine glass, to the dark, smouldering gold of her eyes that had caught her looking. 

Kagrenac would always hold it for a second too long. 

“Kagrenac,” she says, with a simple nod. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

They have worked together for some time now, enough for Almalexia to know she was not fond of overly elaborate greetings and that she always came to her with some kind of purpose. They spoke almost entirely about matters of business: teasing out the meaning of a peace treaty’s terms, tracing rings onto a map dissected into puzzle pieces. Always circled by the keen eyes of another councillor, another lord, another master of the house. Bishops, Knights, Rooks, and occasionally, Kings. 

Never before, alone. Never before on a regal balcony, looking out on a plaza bordered with painted lanterns where dancers in bright cloaks glide beneath them.

“You are carrying the sword I gave you,” she says, although her eyes do not glance down to her sword sheathed at her hips, past silver-rimmed epaulets and layers of soft silken finery embroidered with pearls, to the sword between them, the most beautiful sword she has ever laid eyes on, she might say, to the sword that might even outshine her beauty, and it might not be a half-truth of a hidden-lie, to say that. 

Her eyes rest solely on her own. Almalexia does not look away.

“I am,” Almalexia replies.

“Do you expect to be attacked?”

Her eyebrows raise, slightly, in surprise, before putting on a soft, smooth voice like a comfortable cloak. “It is always beneficial for a leader to be cautious,” she says. “It would be foolish indeed to discount the possibility, even in the comforts of one’s home. It is where the heart lies that we can sometimes forget to be careful.”

“I see,” says Kagrenac. She tilts her head to the side, slightly. Perhaps it is a pensive gesture. Almalexia, with her hand trailing on the railing, takes a small, gentle step closer to her. She keeps her gaze steady, on her. Always on her.

“If you have any doubts about your safety here, you need not fear. We are monitoring the situation closely, keeping an attentive eye on any irregularities.”

“Were there to be any irregularities?”

Her watchful eyes, they regard her carefully. As if they are looking for cracks. 

“If there were, they have been dealt with.”

She tries to keep her voice as still, as calm, as the lotus ponds in the Palace Gardens, as if there is not a trace of a breeze. 

“That is good to hear,” Kagrenac says, with a nod. “An incident now would be disastrous. I am glad you have the situation under your control.” Her hands too, like a mirror, unfold and rest on the railing, on what feels like the edge of the world. She glances outwards.

Almalexia does not say anything more for a moment. She gazes out to the festivities spiralling beneath her, dancers twirling, a melody swirling, swelling with excitement, peppery flutes and soaring strings, and it struck her how it could have all washed over her, this frenzy, this celebration. How distant it seemed, and how odd that was, that a crown could fade into a distant twinkle of stars. Up on the balcony where the walls were choked with ivy, the air felt heavier. Silence held meaning. 

(She finds her gaze drifting to the woman to her left, the woman with the gravity of a distant star. She wishes she had the time to drink in the details of her profile, to the exact pattern of how her dark hair is braided, to the stray curls of hair that frame her face, to the curl of her lip, that wears a somber expression like a crown.)

“I find it interesting,” Kagrenac says, at last, as she looks out at the roaring world beneath them, “That you choose to wear the sword. Why do you carry it?”

“I take comfort in knowing I will not be helpless if all my guards are cut down. That others know that I will, if required, take matters into my own hands.” A glance away, to the mirage of lights and dancers. A glance back, to the woman next to her. “Sometimes, matters require a personal touch.” 

Kagrenac catches her glance. “What is curious to me is that not everyone is as forthright.” She gestures outwards, long, elegant fingers poised at the world below them. “Others might, if gifted with such a thing, mount it on their mantle, to be simply a pretty thing for others to gawk at. A trophy, they might even claim.” She looks back at Almalexia, with burning eyes. “Has that not been the case?” 

Perhaps, if the moon was full, or if the music was sweeter, or if they were in a parlour on a hot deshaan afternoon with servings of spiced tea, she might have politely agreed with her, a soft, pliant smile. Perhaps, if they were surrounded by the expectant eyes of men who were not worth half as much as them, she would have simply conceded, gracefully. Perhaps, if she had not spent so much time how eyes could unravel her. 

“Perhaps it is not so simple,” she says, meeting her eye. “What you may consider a merely pretty bauble can be a rather compelling distraction.”

She leans closer. “You think it is a matter of appearances, then, and not a disrespect to the utility of such a piece?”

It is difficult not to blink, or frown, or shake one’s head in response to that. “Appearances _are_ a matter of utility,” says Almalexia, in an even tone as she can manage. “Whether you see it or not, each and every one of us carries a sword. A hidden blade has utility not only because it is a blade, but also, because it is hidden. The perception matters.”

“The perception matters,” she repeats, softly, an echo, as if she is considering the words. “And yet, you wear yours proudly. I have not seen that sword leave your side since the moment it was gifted to you, two weeks before. Why is that so?”

Almalexia raises her eyebrows, slightly. “I did not know you paid such rapt attention to me, Kagrenac.”

“I pay attention to all the important details.”

“If that is true, perhaps you could already tell me exactly why,” she says, with a smile. “Deduce the meaning, why don’t you? I am sure you are more than capable.”

For a blink of a moment, Kagrenac looks surprised. It disappears as quickly as it arised. 

There is a moment of quiet. She looks away, suddenly - her features settle into a deep frown, her brows knit themselves together in a familiar expression that Almalexia has not yet managed to quite grasp, exactly, although she knows it is neither burning hatred nor burning passion. It is as if the air has become even weightier.

When she looks back at Almalexia, it is as if she has sharpened her gaze. 

“I would typically assume,” she begins, with the voice she imagines would echo softly through the grand chambers of a Dwemeri cathedral, the sort of voice one might describe as ‘sonorous’, or some other such lofty adjective. “That this would be a diplomatic gesture meant to assure both the Dwemeri delegation and the wider populace that the transition to a formal alliance is going smoothly. A Dwemer blade, wielded by the Chimer queen, with the most pleasant smile, on the most pleasant of wedding days -- what else could your adoring public take from that? No -- you’re far more subtle than that, aren’t you? You wouldn’t do anything half as obvious.” 

She takes a step forward. 

“I think you’re cleverer than you’d have them believe. I think you have some idea of the weight of what lies between us - or the weight it _should_ have. Perhaps you might not have the whole idea - perhaps not all of it - but _enough_.

Her voice lowers so that Almalexia has to lean closer still, their hands almost touching on the railing, straining to hear every syllable.

“Perhaps you even know that Dwemer crafts carry the marks of their craftspeople. Perhaps you even know the movements you make are shaped by the people who forged them. Your purposes, our purposes - these things cannot be cleft apart. Do you know they are not simple tools you can use for your petty whims and desires? Do you understand that, Almalexia?”

“And if I did?” 

“If you did, and you were to wield that Dwemer blade, so brazenly, as sacred rites to your gods still rest softly on your lips... I can only think that as a challenge.” Then, more confidently: “Yes. You would be challenging me.”

Their hands are almost touching.

“A challenge,” she echoes. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive.”

At this, Almalexia’s lips curl upwards into a smile. Not the soft, pliant smile for other pieces of the board. No, this was a wicked thing, a smile laced with hunger. A smile laced with desire. 

“I had actually hoped that when you first approached, that you were simply going to ask me to dance. Although perhaps a challenge is more interesting.”

Kagrenac’s fingertips gently brush her own. 

“Do you want to dance with me, Almalexia?”

The thought is _so_ tempting. 

Almalexia imagines that she says yes. Almalexia imagines that they slowly circle, palm-to-palm, pressed gently against hers, the tips of her slender fingers glancing over the edge of her own soft hands. She wonders, are they rough or smooth? Does she have thick calluses, or an array of proud scars, worn from forging beauty with those skillful fingers? (She reminds herself, there is a sword between them now). Almalexia thinks of how those dark-lashed eyes would bore into her as they twist around each other. Almalexia thinks of how the word _lover_ would stain the tongues of others; Almalexia thinks of how those spurious whispers might taste, how intoxicating, to be looked at, to be reviled, in disdain by her adoring public, as she wears a Dwemer blade. 

She thinks of how the poets might ink their tangled footsteps into sweet lyrics about danger, about seduction, about deceit - as if the movement of her body, her grace, her beauty, it belonged in their mouths.

She thinks of how heavy her ceremonial garb is. She thinks of her tired feet. 

“No,” she says, as she idly runs a finger along the edge of her palm, as she watches her eyes begin to unravel her, as she thinks about how exactly it would _feel_ to be unravelled in those careful, attentive hands. “I want to go to a place where only you can look at me.”

With gentle, almost-trembling fingers, Kagrenac takes her hand.

\----

  
  


There would be a challenge, and it would involve a game of chess. But it would not be before she leads her to a secluded set of chambers where few servants dared tread: this is for royalty, this was their domain. It is a place of plenty, brimming with satin and silver and trails of pearls and lace edges on plump cushions and soft beds that have been untouched, which do not know the shapes of bodies that have fallen into it. A strange place to return to after years of trudging across battlefields.

Kagrenac brings a brass bottle of aged Dwemeri scotch, and carefully pours it into two shallow glasses. Almalexia raises it to her lips, with a smile. They sit on the edge of an unloved marriage bed, Kagrenac’s fingers carefully inspecting the shape of Almalexia’s other hand. Perhaps she is making note of faded scars as she takes her first sip.

It tastes sharp, of spice and fire. A strange comfort, indeed.

There would of course be a challenge, and it would of course be a battle of vicious intelligence. A game where each stolen piece, each pawn taken, would be rewarded with a frank answer. The questions would be of the victor’s choosing - with some restrictions. No state secrets, no details that would endanger the alliance that they have so carefully assembled with their own hands. This was personal. This was for them, between them, and only about them. 

“It is not simply a ‘Dwemer blade’. It is a blade that you gifted to me,” Almalexia will tell her.

“Am I not Dwemer, Almalexia?”

“You are Kagrenac. You are hardly an ordinary Dwemer. Even a soul such as I, deeply uneducated when it comes to Dwemeri customs and manners, knows this.”

She will laugh at this. 

“You, Almalexia, are hardly uneducated, and you discredit both me and yourself by even saying so in my presence,” she will tell her. “I am not one of the highborn men you so artfully flatter into thinking they have some semblance of control.”

But it would not be before she glances from beneath those dark, long lashes of hers as she draws Almalexia’s hand to her lips. It would not before Almalexia's breath catches and her heart begins to skitter as Kagrenac holds her fingertips a brushstroke from a kiss for the longest time. It is only when Almalexia tilts her head, a slow, graceful nod, that Kagrenac dares kiss it. That wry smile of hers, it would not be before she delicately kisses along from her fingertips to her wrist, as she caresses each faintly healed scar, each callous that has formed from clutching a knife too tightly. It would not be before Almalexia watches her move closer, as her eyes still hold onto hers, as a finger brushes from her jaw to her chin, her lips a breath away her own lips -- she is so close, and yet so distant --- 

A slight smile spreads across Kagrenac’s face, a little smirk, perhaps about some delightful secret about to be spilt, between each other--

\--- and Almalexia cannot help but kiss her. 

_“What did you truly think of the Nords when they claimed your city, your home their own?” she will ask, as her fingers move across to take her last knight. She will notice silvery scars crossing the back of her hands; a slight discolouration of skin along the edges of her left palm; perhaps a cut that could not be healed; perhaps burn that could not be soothed, not fully._

_“Did you ever feel that your gods failed you, then?”_

She kisses her hungrily. She tastes of spice and fire. 

“Almalexia,” she says, with a smile.

Almalexia kisses her again -- she kisses her hungrily, she kisses her greedily, she runs her fingers through her dark braids and along the stray curls that have escaped them as she pulls her closer for more, as she pulls her closer, into this unloved bed of soft silks that she is determined to crumple and spoil -- until Kagrenac draws away, for the briefest second. Only, to kiss her again, and again, soft and slow and teasing kisses -- and each time she draws away, there is a smile -- each time wider, each time a little more wicked -- 

_When Almalexia takes her first rook from her slender hands, she will lean over and ask her whether she has ever questioned her lack of faith, whether she has ever doubted that reason and logic are enough -- and Kagrenac will hold her gaze in silence for a cold, hard minute._

_“Yes,” she will say, after a time._

_“Yes?”_

_“It was long before I was called Kagrenac. And therefore, it no longer matters. It is no longer true to me.”_

\-- but not before Kagrenac’s fingertips slide down her neck to her collar, as she leans over to Almalexia’s ear as if to spill a wonderful secret, as if to tell Almalexia her deepest desire -- as her fingers gently slip down her back, beneath all that rigid fabric --

“I think I would prefer to remove all of this,” Kagrenac mumbles into her ear. “Don’t you agree?”

Almalexia nods. “Take it off,” she says, barely a whisper, as she kisses the tip of her ear. “Take it all off.”

Carefully, her lips trace from her tip to her earlobe, from her earlobe down to the back of her neck, the tip of her tongue slowly running along her skin before planting a soft kiss at her nape. Her fingers begin to unfasten the first button, taking the utmost care that nothing rips or snags, and with each button of her robes that comes loose, she plants another kiss. Steadily, methodically, a kiss for every clasp and buckle, her lips moving lower, as her hands pull away that heavy finery, and drift along her bare skin. 

“Far better,” she says, with a note of satisfaction, as she places a kiss at the small of her back, and her hands pull her in, into an embrace, and all she can smell is rich fragrance, and all she can feel are hands running down her body. 

_She will ask her, “Do you think your gods are worthy of you?”_

_Almalexia will not know how to formulate an answer. Not at first. Her thoughts turn to Kagrenac, who has run her tongue down her skin whispering the names of so-called divines and deities that can’t compare to her, that she is more splendid, more beautiful, more enchanting than by half -_ ‘sweeter’ she says, as she tastes her, ‘than any nectar they could dream of’ _\--_

_“I think it’s clear that you don’t,” Almalexia will say._

_“I am asking for your_ _opinion. Not my own.”_

_“Very well,” says Almalexia. “I have not considered the question much, not until this evening.” She glances at the white bishop now taken by Kagrenac’s hands. “But I suppose… I think the relationship is different than you might imagine, at least among the Chimer. They are worthy of us, because they give us the space to prove our worth. What we mean to each other, what we owe each other, it is perhaps more interconnected than one might assume.” She glances from her bishop to Kagrenac’s eyes. “Like a web, I suppose.”_

_“Then what is the difference, really, between a mortal and a divine, if they require you for their schemes, if they cannot create for themselves?”_

_“Mortals bleed. Mortals die.”_

_“Does a queen, much beloved by her public, ever die in their minds? Does her memory and her legacy not outlast her?”_

_An old memory flickers in her mind. Incense. White robes. The smell of ash. The soft beating of a drum, that falls silent._

_“Not in a way that truly matters. Not if she can no longer speak for herself.”_

But first, her hands begin to drift over her hips, down her stomach, tracing swirling tattoos that twist across her body, that cover old wounds that haven’t healed as well as they should. 

“I would kiss every one of these if I could,” Kagrenac says, as her thumb traces circles along ribbons of ink that may or may not prophesy the end of a civilisation. 

“And will you?”

Almalexia is trying to unfasten a set of an unfathomably complex Dwemer clasps that run up the side of her robes, as Kagrenac’s fingertips slowly wind their way up her thigh. Very distracting, those hands of hers. 

“Would you like me to?”

Dextrous, clever hands. Hands that touch with tenderness and grace, towards something dangerous. 

Almalexia’s fingers catch on the clasp. Again. 

“I would very like you with your clothes off _,_ first,” Almalexia says, swallowing a gasp. “Then, perhaps, you may.” She pulls a manicured finger along the edge of Kagrenac’s robes, a rather beautifully cut set of violet silks that seem to shimmer as they move. “Would you be dreadfully upset if I tore this open? Save some hassle?”

Kagrenac tuts softly. “Anything that is worth doing is worth doing properly,” she says. She lifts a hand to gently guide Almalexia’s, and gently, but surely, moves her fingers as to unfasten the clasp effortlessly, to reveal a bare shoulder, to slowly expose the upper half of her body. “With the proper attention and care.”

Almalexia smiles. “Show me.”

_When Kagrenac takes her queen, Almalexia will do her best to wear a cordial smile, to appreciate her skillful manoeuvre, her strategic prowess, as if she is not sore at the loss of her favourite piece, at the thought of losing to her._

_“I want to know how you feel about your decision to marry Nerevar.”_

_It cuts, that question, and grazes against a raw wound. Still bleeding.  
_

_“That is a political question. Not a personal one.”_

_“Is it, Almalexia?”_

_She will look at Almalexia directly as she says this, without a twitch of a muscle. They sit in a room that is draped in his colours, with his crest adorned on the wall, with various knick-knacks and ornaments and adornments of roses presented meant to welcome him, with a bed that had yet been untouched, unspoiled -- a bed whose luxurious silks and embroidered pillows have been tossed aside in a heap, in a mess of crumpled sheets, now covered in long curls of dark hair, smelling of rich spices, tasting of fire._

_“I believe you could probably use your brilliant_ ‘logical expertise’ _to deduce exactly how I feel.”_

_“I am not telepathic, Almalexia, no matter what people might tell you of me.” A small frown will appear, a slight crease in her features. “I have been known to be wrong, sometimes.”_

_“Ah, the great and haughty Kagrenac, is she finally admitting fault?”_

_“Almalexia, I am hardly faultless, and it would be foolish to say otherwise.”_

_Almalexia will shake her head -- and try to laugh, as if she is shaking her feelings away, as if she is shaking away what is in front of her. Her hands will tremble. She will attempt to stand, to leave -- but Kagrenac will offer her hand, first._

_She will look to her hand, to Kagrenac, and perhaps, in a moment of weakness, she will take it. She will take her hand, clinging far too tightly, than she should, until the urge to shake stops._

_Kagrenac will hold her for a while, before Almalexia finally answers:_

_“I did not think it would hurt quite this much.”_

This will not be before Kagrenac has her way, and kisses absolutely all of her. This will not be before Kagrenac kisses along her forearms, the curve of her biceps, the width of her back as her hands massage her shoulders. This will not be before she kisses the inside of her thighs lavishly as her fingers dance along her legs, not be before her fingertips gently squeeze her breast as her tongue wanders around a nipple, not be before her hands pull at her hips as she kisses her stomach -- she cannot say lovingly, because Almalexia knows there is no love between them, but attentively enough, tenderly enough, for her to question that. This will not be before Kagrenac’s tongue runs along the tops of her thighs, as her fingers hover millimetres above what lies between, and Almalexia says:

“You’re teasing me.”

Kagrenac glances upwards, wearing an innocuous smile.

“I wouldn’t dare tease you.”

“Oh, you’re a _rotten_ liar. You absolutely would. You’re teasing me.”

“Hmm? Do I detect a note of impatience there, Almalexia?”

Almalexia reaches forward, letting her hand comb through her hair, caressing her cheek like it is something precious.

“Kagrenac,” she says, in a gentle voice. “I want you. I want you now. Not tomorrow. Not the next time tax records need to be checked. Now.”

“So demanding.”

“ _Kagrenac._ ”

She tuts softly, and places a soft, sweet kiss at the top of the inside of her thigh. 

“Ugh. _Please_.”

“You are lucky that I like a good challenge,” she says, before she glides the edge of her little finger along the length of her, before a soft gasp escapes her lips, before her ring finger begins to tease her open, to caress the folds of her, her lips kissing along her softly, before that finger begins to slide inside of her, to rock her gently, rhythmically, to curl up inside of her, as Almalexia’s fingers begin to curl up too, to tangle in her hair, and she begins moan softly as the tip of her tongue presses against the tip of her clit, as it begins to dance in circles around her, as her thighs begin to tremble, as her body begins to shake, as her nails begin to dig into her, again she says:

 _“_ Kagrenac _, please,”_ she says, breathless, as she grinds against her, as she begins to feel a great wave rise up within her, that could swallow her whole, that could devour her entirely, and all she can do is writhe in this ecstasy of pleasure and sing --

\-- before she collapses in a bed of crumpled silks and cushions with a soft, contented sigh. 

_She will be caught unaware when Almalexia misleads her into a trap that leaves her queen vulnerable, that leaves her queen isolated, without protection. Her face will break and show the slightest inkling of frustration when Almalexia captures her strongest piece, but it will soon turn into a crooked smile she is becoming quite fond of._

_“Well played,” she will say, with a soft chuckle. She will almost sound pleased. “You’ve earned your question.”_

_Almalexia will lean across the table, with a finger at her lips._

_“Tell me what you honestly think of me.”_

_Kagrenac will blink in surprise. She will look away, briefly, her features twitching, as if she is calculating something, and before looking back to Almalexia, who smiles expectantly, before looking away, her lip curling, her hand reaching to her mouth, her brow furrowing. Perhaps, Almalexia will wonder, she contemplates different options, different ways to parse her thoughts. There is something so exact about how she speaks. As if she sharpens her words with a knife. Almalexia can only wonder what concept she is chiselling down to a compact, impactful phrase._

_At last, she will look up again._

_Her hand will reach out and brush her fingers softly, and Almalexia will realise: they are almost-trembling. Almost._

_“I find you so enchanting,” she will say, quietly, as her fingertips entwine with hers._

When she is finished, Kagrenac -- who has become a glorious mess of half-undone braids and loose hair and sweat, a portrait of so-called “imperfections” that Almalexia wishes she could paint, blemished skin covered in nicks and marks and dimples, with dangerous trails of hair curling down her stomach and chest -- will curl up beside her, her head resting on her chest. It feels natural to gently stroke her hair, to curl her fingers around it; it feels natural to reach for her hand, and to gently kiss it. _Thank you,_ says the kiss. 

She glances up in her direction. The look she wears on her face - if Almalexia is not mistaken - has a flicker of warmth. 

It will fade, that flicker. Almalexia knows this. There is a sword between them. Not love.

\----

_When The Chief Tonal Architect Kagrenac declares “Checkmate,” Almalexia will smile graciously, and congratulate her on a game well played. It is a genuine, earnest congratulations, and yet she will not return her smile._

_“I would like you to tell me about yourself,” she will say, with the taken king between her forefinger and thumb._

_Almalexia will shake her head again, and laugh, a little, perplexed by the question. “I… I'm surprised you ask this_ now _. What is there to tell when one's history is already written in the corner of a history book?”_

_“Then imagine I do not know.”_

_“I still don’t understand why you ask.”_

_Before she answers, Kagrenac slowly reaches out, and brushes her hand with her fingertips. It is a soft, almost hesitant gesture._

_“How often do you tell your own story, in your own words?” she asks Almalexia.  
_

_“Not enough.”_

_“Then there is your reason. I want your own words.”_

_So they will begin to speak of memories. Fond ones, at first, bright thoughts from times swallowed by war. Almalexia will speak of sheltered courtyards and runny kwama eggs and the colour of bruises from falling from trees in a tightly-fenced garden or scraping knees or hitting your partner with a training sword too hard. Almalexia will speak of grand feasts with platters of ripe, luscious fruits grown from their own gardens alongside eye-watering displays of cakes and pastry treats imported from the West._

_(Almalexia will speak later of famine. Almalexia will speak later of the smell of funeral pyres. Almalexia will speak later of the cold eyes of the old Jarl.)_

_Her eyes will be on her expectantly, watching her lips move._

_“And what of yourself?”_

_“Nothing so fanciful.”_

_“Tell me. I will be the judge of that.”_

_Kagrenac will tell her, even though she is the victor, even though she owes her no answers. Kagrenac will tell her of blankets of snow and strings of windchimes that tremble in the west winds, high in the Velothi mountains - although she will not call them that, she has another name for them, something heavy that sticks in the throat. She will speak of thick, comforting walls that formed bell towers, that would rise up in tones of every colour. And she will mean colour. She will describe music as if it is a painting, and she will describe paintings as if they are songs. Which is as beautiful as it is difficult to follow._

_“That all sounds very noisy,” Almalexia will say._

_A hint of a smile._

_“Silent, now. It is a shame,” Kagrenac will say, as her fingers run through a lock of her red hair, “That Ysmir decided to shout it to ash. It was not much of a shout, though. More of a whisper.”_

_Almalexia will grasp her hand tenderly. “I am sorry,” she will say, with as much sorrow as she can express, but Kagrenac has nothing to say to this, and will simply pour another whiskey for her and herself._

_She will kiss her on the lips once more before she leaves._

_“Thank you,” she will say, as her hand brushes her cheek._

_Fire and spice. An aftertaste of ash._

**Author's Note:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> hope you enjoyed "almalexia is obsessed with kagrenac's eyes and hands: the fic".
> 
> this was a PAIN to write and probably needs to go up in a more polished version but actually I can't wait for someone to beta it; I just want it up now. first time I've tried an Almalexia PoV! let's hope it wasn't too terrible. this is also my first "proper" attempt at smut; I've mentioned sex before, but it's never more than a paragraph, more than a paraphrasing. Most of this is just making out and foreplay, though, if I'm honest. 
> 
> (In case anyone has read Twelve Tones and is curious about where this fits: this is taking place in an AU. Although, if I'm honest with you, the chances of Kagrenac and Bthemetz having an open relationship is actually well above zero, so this could quite easily fit into that timeline, if you'd like.)
> 
> shout out to Ayem and Razak who without I would have never been brave enough to write this as explicit as it is. love to anyone who has shown interest in this and helped spur me on, even indirectly.


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